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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25613620">Don't Ignore Me (I'm Lovesick)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea'>Neyiea</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gotham (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bickering, Breaking and Entering, Bruce is too tired for this, Humor, Let's just ignore the canon endings of That's Entertainment and One Bad Day, M/M, Sick Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:01:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,627</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25613620</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An entire week of schemes passes without a single sign of Bruce Wayne trying to put a stop to them.</p>
<p>Jerome and Jeremiah won't stand for it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jeremiah Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Jeremiah Valeska/Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>104</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>392</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/murdertwinsxo/gifts">murdertwinsxo</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story is the love-child of mine and murdertwinsxo's conversations. For bookkeeping's sake: Jerome didn't fall, Jeremiah's original plan failed but Ra's is MIA so Selina is A-Okay and bridges aren't blown up, and these two have very low emotional intelligence so boy are they pining but boy do they not realize it (how canon of them). Chapter count is tentative and may change, because that's just who I am as a person. </p>
<p>"Someone needs to write Jerome and Jeremiah as absolutely ridiculous disasters and it might as well be me." - Me. </p>
<p>ALSO this is significant to no one but myself, but this fic officially makes Gotham my most written for fandom, even more than RotG (the fandom that got me back into fic-writing after four years of nothing) and it just feels very monumental so I have to say it SOMEWHERE.</p>
<p>xoxo</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>No Sign of Bruce Wayne: Day One</b>
</p><p>Alarms ringing, gunshots going off, screaming. It’s all music to his ears, really, and when Jerome strolls out of the bank and watches people rush to get away from him he feels his smile stretch wider. He opens his arms; an invitation for any who might be in the area to try and land a hit on him if they thought they had mad courage to try, except…</p><p>No one tries.</p><p>His smile fades and he casts a glance up and down the street.</p><p>Huh. No Bruce. This was exactly the sort of fun that he liked putting an end to, and Jerome had been certain that he’d show up just in time to try and tackle Jerome onto the stone steps leading up to the bank. But. He wasn’t here.</p><p>Something like disappointment—because he was always raring for a fight with Bruce, obviously—tugs at his chest. </p><p>x-x-x</p><p>The theft had required a delicate touch; not only to get in and out but to guarantee that the swap wouldn’t be noticed for at least several hours. He’d left a little note for Bruce, under the guise of it being for Detective Gordon, and was waiting eagerly to be tracked down because he knew that, one way or another, Bruce would hear about the letter. </p><p>But…</p><p>Bruce doesn’t come; not alone, not even with a bunch of his police friends. Even though Jeremiah had made sure the location would be obvious. </p><p>‘The place where you told me that you were my friend.’</p><p>Jeremiah paces the length of the mausoleum where he had once deceived Bruce into thinking that Jeremiah thought he was Jerome in disguise, disappointment tugging at his chest—because he’d planned an excellent speech that made such a good case for Bruce teaming up with him, obviously—as time continues to pass with no Bruce in sight. </p><p>
  <b>No Sign of Bruce Wayne: Day Three</b>
</p><p>He’s a little obvious in his broadcast, but he doesn’t really care because he’s been itching for something—for a fight, he tells himself—ever since Bruce didn’t show up to try and knock him out at the bank. His location is going to be easy to figure out, but he doesn’t care if the cops try to stop his fun so long as Bruce gets here first, and Jerome is a lot closer to Wayne Manor than the GCPD.</p><p>The broadcast comes to an end.</p><p>He waits.</p><p>The cops show up, but Bruce doesn’t.</p><p>
  <i>What the fuck?</i>
</p><p>Is he being ignored?!</p><p>x-x-x</p><p>He’s putting the finishing touches on his latest genius plan, a smile tugging at his lips because he’d called Bruce’s personal cell from a burner phone and had left a message that Bruce couldn’t possibly ignore. Gordon probably hadn’t passed along his note—Jeremiah should really know better than to trust him with such an important task—and yes, Bruce is probably going to notify his friends about Jeremiah’s plans but he’s also not going to be able to resist coming to find Jeremiah himself. </p><p>He lays down a small soldering iron. </p><p>He waits.</p><p>The police show up, but Bruce doesn’t.</p><p>
  <i>What is happening?<i></i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Is he being ignored?!</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <b>No Sign of Bruce Wayne: Day Four</b>
    </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Why is it you?!” Jerome yells through his megaphone. “Why is it always you?!”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Detective Gordon, partially shielded by the open door of his cruiser, frowns at Jerome and doesn’t drop his gun.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“You know, sometimes I ask myself the exact same thing.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Not what I meant, Jimbo! Where’s Bruce?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Bruce is a civilian who doesn’t have any sort of obligation to follow the demands of a known criminal. He’s safe where he is, and he’s going to stay there.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Jerome curses into the megaphone.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <b>No Sign of Bruce Wayne: Day Five</b>
    </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Detective Gordon,” Jeremiah drawls the greeting in an attempt to look poised. Internally he’s snarling. “Why is it always you?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Detective Gordon, aiming a gun at Jeremiah as if he actually has the guts to shoot when he knows that Jeremiah’s finger slipping off of the dead-man’s trigger would only spell catastrophe, frowns at him.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I ask myself that question more and more every day.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Not what I meant, Jim,” Jeremiah says, and before he gets the chance to say anything else Gordon cuts in with:</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Bruce is a civilian who doesn’t have any sort of obligation to follow the demands of a known criminal.” He sounds tired, as if this is something he’s had to say before. “He’s safe where he is, and he’s going to stay there.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Jeremiah’s internal snarling reaches a peak, and he can’t keep the sneer off of his face.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <b>No Sign of Bruce Wayne: Day Six</b>
    </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“This bullet,” Jerome says grandly, holding it up to show it off. “Means that he’s ignoring me on purpose.” He slides it into the revolver and spins the chamber. “A blank round means that it’s all just coincidence and he’s vacationing in the Alps, or wherever it is that rich people go to forget about their problems.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The bound and gagged city councilman tries to yell something. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Shut up. This is very important.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He shoots.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>It’s not a blank.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Jerome watches the councilman—who would have died anyway, that was all part of Jerome’s plan in the first place—go limp, and he doesn’t feel the slightest bit better.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He stalks away, and when the Maniax who’d been with him ask him where he’s going he tells them, “To kill someone else.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>But what he does is sulk in his room.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>x-x-x</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Is he ignoring me on purpose?” Jeremiah asks in an entirely reasonable and not at all emotionally compromised tone of voice.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Of course he’s not. How could he possibly ignore you?” Ecco runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to offer comfort before she goes back to touching up his roots. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I haven’t seen him for a week,” he laments. “And he has to be in Gotham. He wouldn’t have left, not at a time like this.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Not when he loved his city too much to leave it behind or to join Jeremiah in tearing the place down to be built up better. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Maybe other criminals have been keeping him busy? You know he tends to get caught up in things that he has no business getting caught up in.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>It’s the worst possible thing that Ecco could have said.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Once his hair has been dealt with Jeremiah sulks in his room. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <b>No Sign of Bruce Wayne: Day Eight</b>
    </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“That’s it,” they say. They are separated by an entire city but united by one particular goal. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I’m breaking into Wayne Manor.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>aaaAH? Oh my gosh, guys, your comments are making me <i>!!!!!!!</i><br/>Please know that I love y'all and would totally print them off to laminate and put them in a special book to look at whenever I have a Low Mood, because they brighten my day so much. Here, have some hearts: ❤💙❤💙❤💙❤💙</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>No Sign of Bruce Wayne (for the Valeskas): Day Eight</b>
</p>
<p>“You’re sure you’ll be okay if I go out to run errands for an hour or two?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Alfred,” Bruce manages, voice rough from days of endless coughing. “All I’m going to do is sleep, it’s not as if I’m planning on leaving my room for anything. I know my limits.”</p>
<p>Alfred settles an unfairly disbelieving look on him.</p>
<p>“Master B,” he starts bluntly. “The reason you got sick in the first place is because you thought staying out on a rainy night chasing a dead-end after you’d already worked yourself too hard wouldn’t have any repercussions, and then it took you nearly three days to admit that you were ill. Something that might have been resolved with a day or two of taking it easy devolved into me driving you to the ER thinking that you needed IV antibiotics and a chest x-ray, and two nights spent in the hospital before the Doctor cleared you to come home for bedrest, so excuse me if I have my doubts.”</p>
<p>Bruce winces, feeling like covering his face up with his sheets.</p>
<p>So maybe Alfred’s disbelieving look wasn’t entirely unfair after all. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry for making you worry, Alfred,” he offers. “I didn’t think it was that bad, at first.” And he’d thought he would get over it quickly, because he’d never been so sick before. </p>
<p>Alfred’s hand comes down to rest lightly against the crown of his head.</p>
<p>“I’m always going to worry about you, Bruce,” he says. “And I know you’ve survived a lot more than anyone your age should have ever had to, but please remember that you are not actually invincible. Gordon was almost reduced to tears when he first saw you in that hospital bed, you know.”</p>
<p>“He was not,” Bruce protests before remembering that he’d woken up and Jim had already been in the room with Alfred, so Bruce hadn’t actually seen his face when he’d first arrived. “Was he?”</p>
<p>Alfred ruffles his hair. </p>
<p>“Remember that you’re not invincible, Bruce.”</p>
<p>Bruce nods dutifully. I will not kill. I will remember that I’m not invincible.</p>
<p>“And while I’m gone don’t even bother putting the news on. Lord only knows what’s been going on out there that’s been stressing Gordon out.” They’re both silent, because Jim found certain things—certain criminals—a lot more stressful than others. “Best not to think about it.”</p>
<p>“I promise I won’t watch the news.” He hasn’t even checked his phone since Alfred had driven him to Gotham General. A lot could happen in Gotham in a week. Too much could happen in Gotham in a week. If he started catching up while he was still supposed to be on bedrest, well… It was just better for him to wait until he was actually able to walk up the stairs without feeling like he needed to take several breaks. “And I promise I won’t leave the house unless there’s a dire emergency.”</p>
<p>Alfred’s lips twitch, probably with the effort it takes to hold back ‘there’s always a dire emergency in Gotham’, and he ruffles Bruce’s hair again before pulling away.</p>
<p>“I’ll have my phone on me, so if you need anything while I’m gone just give me a ring.”</p>
<p>“Yes, Alfred,” Bruce says before adding, softer, “I love you, Alfred.”</p>
<p>He sees the hug coming from a mile away, just as planned, and he smiles against Alfred’s shoulder. </p>
<p>x-x-x</p>
<p>Jerome watches the butler leave, and once he’s out of sight he rushes over to the windows that he’d broken into on his special night two years ago, pleased to find it’s just as easy to slip in now as it had been back then. He lifts himself up over the windowsill and strolls through the office, nostalgia sparking under his skin as he passes the place where Bruce had once stood up to ask, firelight reflecting in his eyes, what Jerome wanted.</p>
<p>The memories cause him to smile. He takes out a knife and performs a very minor act of destruction, just in case it comes in handy, and he smiles even wider at the strange but pleasantly warm sensation in his chest.</p>
<p>He steps out of the office, and somewhere ahead he hears—</p>
<p>—quiet footsteps.</p>
<p>The butler is gone, so that must mean…</p>
<p>x-x-x</p>
<p>Jeremiah watches Mister Pennyworth leave and once the car is out of sight he strolls to the front door, pulling out a ring of keys.</p>
<p>One of the many perks of being friends with Bruce had been to spend time with him without Bruce having his guard up, and Jeremiah had somehow known that slyly making copies of his keys was going to come in handy one day. He unlocks the front door and steps inside of Wayne Manor for the first time.</p>
<p>It’s heady, to be in the place where Bruce grew up, surrounded by walls steeped in history. Jeremiah takes a few moments to look around before he heads towards the stairs, but from somewhere beyond them he hears—</p>
<p>—quiet footsteps.</p>
<p>Mister Pennyworth is gone, so that must mean…</p>
<p>x-x-x</p>
<p>They leap out at each other at the same time, smiles abruptly morphing into frowns as soon as they catch sight of one another. </p>
<p>“<i>What</i> are you doing here?”</p>
<p>“What are <i>you</i> doing here?”</p>
<p>They glare at each other.</p>
<p>“I asked you first,” Jeremiah snarls.</p>
<p>“I was born first,” Jerome snaps.</p>
<p>“You were dead for over a year so technically I’m older now.”</p>
<p>Jerome’s thoughts pause for a moment to digest that, and while he’s distracted Jeremiah makes a break for the stairs.</p>
<p>Jerome full-body tackles him to the floor.</p>
<p>x-x-x</p>
<p>Bruce hears a distant thump and he thinks, that’s awfully loud for a robber.</p>
<p>A few seconds pass. He hears another thump.</p>
<p>Very unsubtle. Who would possibly…</p>
<p>He shuts his eyes and sighs.</p>
<p>Please, no.</p>
<p>He takes a moment to remind himself that this is the exact kind of situation that Alfred would demand to be called about, but before he can even leave his bed to search for wherever Alfred had stashed his cell phone he hears footsteps—<i>two sets of footsteps?</i>—rushing closer.</p>
<p>Two, he thinks somewhat hazily, why would there be two? Unless they… But, no.</p>
<p>His bedroom door slams open.</p>
<p>But yes, apparently.</p>
<p>He barely has time to register that, yes, both of the Valeskas <i>are</i> in his doorway before Jerome elbows Jeremiah in the ribs in order to be the first one to rush inside. Bruce is so dumbfounded by the sight of them both together and <i>not trying to murder each other</i> that he doesn’t even react until Jerome is right there, reaching into his space.</p>
<p>Strangled to death, Bruce thinks faintly, that doesn’t really seem his style.</p>
<p>But instead of his fists wrapping around Bruce’s throat they dig into the material of his pajama shirt and give him a little shake.</p>
<p>“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” Jerome demands, and Bruce feels the beginnings of a cough starting to scratch at his throat. If he were less courteous he’d just cough directly in the redhead’s face, but he tries to hold it in.</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon,” he rasps.</p>
<p>Jerome opens his mouth to answer, but a gloved hand shoves him out of the way and now Bruce has to deal with Jeremiah staring him down for answers to whatever insipid questions they’ve decided to ask of him after <i>breaking into his house.</i></p>
<p>“You’ve been ignoring me,” Jeremiah whines—Bruce is bewildered by it, but the tone is definitely a whine—at him. “You’re not <i>allowed</i> to ignore me, Bruce, we have a <i>connection</i>.”</p>
<p>Bruce’s chest hitches, the need to cough building up.</p>
<p>“What <i>‘connection’?</i> You’ve known him for a few <i>months</i> you absolute fucking walnut.”</p>
<p>“And during those months he became my <i>very best friend</i>. What have you become during the time you’ve known each other? Oh, right, someone barely worth a footnote during any chapter of his life that you’ve featured in.”</p>
<p>Bruce turns his head to attempt to subtly cough into his elbow, but once he starts he can’t seem to stop.</p>
<p>It’s loud and rough and carries on for what feels like an eternity, his throat becoming uncomfortably raw with each hacking exhalation. But the time it subsides he feels as breathless as if he’d just sprinted a mile and all he wants to do is sink back against his pillows and have Alfred here and have a mug of hot tea with honey in hand.</p>
<p>But what he’s got instead is a pair of unhinged twins staring at him as if he’s the weirdest person in the room. He is not-so-distantly annoyed by it.</p>
<p>“Could we just put a pause on whatever weird thing you’ve got going on right now.” His voice is even rougher than before, rasping and cracking like he’s a hundred years old. He’d been eager to come home, but maybe he should have just stayed in the hospital under a pseudonym after all. “So that you can leave me alone for a few more days? I’ll pay attention to you both later.” By which he means he will find them and subsequently drop-kick them for intruding.</p>
<p>“Bruce.” Jerome’s eyes flash in a strangely wary manner. “Are you… Sick?”</p>
<p>Bruce sends the blandest look he can muster his way.</p>
<p>“You <i>haven’t</i> been ignoring me.” Jeremiah claps his hands together in obvious delight, and if Bruce were up to it he might have attempted to wipe the smile off of Jeremiah’s mouth with his fist. “This is excellent news!”</p>
<p>“Get out of my house,” he commands as sharply as he can, knowing full-well that there’s very little he can do at the moment to force them out. </p>
<p>“Don’t be silly, Bruce. Here you are; sick, weak, <i>all alone</i>—”</p>
<p>“Alfred will be coming back, you realize.”</p>
<p>Jeremiah continues as if Bruce hadn’t said anything. “I cannot leave you to fend for yourself. Friends take care of each other.”</p>
<p>“Friends don’t lie to each other or use each other or steal generators to turn them into bombs in an attempt to turn my <i>entire city</i> into a maze, Jeremiah.”</p>
<p>Bruce ignores the sudden bark of Jerome’s laughter. Jeremiah ignores it, too.</p>
<p>“We’re just breaking new ground, Bruce. The world has simply never seen a friendship like ours before.”</p>
<p>“I detest you,” Bruce states without emotion, too tired to attempt to sound angry. </p>
<p>“Yeah, Miah, he <i>detests you</i>. Looking at you is probably enough to make him feel sicker. You should scram before he’s put on permanent bedrest.”</p>
<p>“I detest you <i>both</i>,” Bruce amends. “And if you’re both so eager for a fight I guess I’ll give you one.” He starts pushing the sheets off of himself. Alfred was going to be so disappointed, but what else was Bruce supposed to do in this situation?</p>
<p>“Wait!”</p>
<p>“Stop!”</p>
<p>Hands lay upon his shoulders and Bruce is slammed back into bed forcefully enough that the air rushes out of his lungs and he dissolves into another coughing fit. </p>
<p>“You’re sick, Bruce. Fighting you right now would be like tricking the GCPD, way too easy to take enjoyment in.”</p>
<p>“You’re sick, and you need someone to take care of you. I can take care of you.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps I was unclear. I do not want. Either of you. Here.”</p>
<p>“No can do, Brucie, how am I supposed to have <i>fun</i> when you’re under the weather? Terrorizing the city just isn’t the same without you running around trying to save it.”</p>
<p>“I can’t leave, Bruce, not when I know you <i>need me</i>.”</p>
<p>What did I do in a past life to deserve this, Bruce thinks as the brothers before him quarrel amongst themselves in an effort to scare each other off. What terrible crimes did I commit?</p>
<p>Fuck, his throat is so sore.</p>
<p>“If the pair of you are so eager to play nurse then you could at least make yourselves useful and make me a cup of tea,” he says under his breath, not expecting either of them to tune into the soft sound of his scratchy voice. Perhaps he should have known better, all things considered, but in his defense he’s not exactly at his best right now. </p>
<p>They turn to stare at him, eerily in sync, and Bruce idly wonders if this is what it feels like to be the protagonist in a horror movie.</p>
<p>“I can do that,” they say in unison. </p>
<p>They glare at each other again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay, this is probably the last daily update because I'm working on a few other things, but this is just so fun and the words are coming pretty easy so it won't be a long wait for the last chapters by any means.</p>
<p>As always, enjoy! Your comments make me all flustered and glowing. &lt;3 Lately I have, like, almost zero energy to respond individually but I adore reading them and I'm so happy you guys are liking this so much. Clearly this fandom needs more Clown Boy antics, noted.  </p>
<p>xoxo</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It absolutely does not take fifteen minutes to make a cup of tea.</p>
<p>Bruce allows himself a few moments to believe the fanciful notion that Jerome and Jeremiah had both come to the realization that they were being even weirder than normal and had decided to leave without saying goodbye, but once those moments are up he sighs and pushes away his sheets.</p>
<p>It’s way more likely that they’re rummaging through his things, and Bruce cannot stand the thought of them getting their awful hands on anything that was actually important to him. </p>
<p>He wearily pulls himself out of bed and ties his soft dressing gown around himself before leaving the confines of his bedroom. Getting down the stairs is an effort, and he actually has to pause and take a seat on the steps partway between the landings of the first and second floor in order to smother a wave of dizziness. Then he is finally on the ground floor, and he heads for the kitchen on the not-entirely-unlikely chance that they’ve started a fight in there and have shattered every plate by throwing them at each other’s heads.</p>
<p>They are arguing, not a surprise. Bruce lingers outside of the doorway and eavesdrops.</p>
<p>“It’s green,” Jerome says vehemently. “That means it’s <i>healthy</i>.”</p>
<p>“Black has more caffeine, and Bruce <i>likes</i> caffeine.” </p>
<p>They’re arguing. About what kind of tea to make him.</p>
<p>These are the men that terrorize my city on a bi-weekly basis, Bruce thinks as he bites back a cough. These are the men that strike fear into the hearts of nearly every citizen in Gotham that hasn’t pledged loyalty to one of them. And they’re…</p>
<p>Idiots. They’re geniuses in their own separate ways, but they’re <i>idiots.</i> He cannot bear to listen to them argue about tea any more. How the hell had they managed to evade capture for so long? </p>
<p>I’m going to go to the landline in the office, he tells himself as he leaves the doorway to the kitchen behind, and I’m going to call Detective Gordon and Alfred, and then these two will never bother me again… Until they inevitably break out of Arkham and decide to bother me even more, but I won’t be sick anymore, so…</p>
<p>It’s all going very well, as least until he picks up the phone and discovers that the line is dead. Then he notices that the cord has been sawed through.</p>
<p>He sighs explosively and sets it back down.</p>
<p>He should have just stayed in his room to search for his cell, but he’d wanted to be sure that the twins weren’t ripping apart old family photos or starting any fires. Now he has to trudge all the way up the stairs, and going up is going to be even more difficult than going down.</p>
<p>“All I wanted to do today was sleep,” he murmurs to himself. “Why can’t I just rest uninterrupted like a <i>normal person?</i>” He trudges to the staircase, he lifts his gaze to stare at the ascending path, he sighs and sits down on the third step from the bottom, telling himself that he’ll take a few minutes to recover his strength before getting it all done in one go.</p>
<p>But of course, since he has the worst luck of any person in Gotham, before he has a chance to pull himself together the twins finally come out of the kitchen.</p>
<p>“What are you doing out of bed,” Jeremiah demands sharply, voice laced with something that sounds <i>almost</i> like genuine concern. Bruce raises his gaze from the floor to frown at them both. They’re each holding a different mug; Bruce isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or cry.</p>
<p>“You were taking too long. It’s been over twenty minutes. How many times did you bring the kettle to a boil?”</p>
<p>“You’re awfully talkative for someone who looks half-dead.” Jerome frowns down at him, eyebrows furrowing in a way that makes Bruce think he’s planning something vile. Then, without looking, he shoves the mug he’s holding into Jeremiah’s chest and Jeremiah fumbles with it to keep from getting burnt by steaming tea.</p>
<p>“Come’ere,” Jerome beckons, arms spreading wide as he leans down and—</p>
<p>Bruce makes a strangled noise as he’s <i>lifted</i> off of the stairs.  </p>
<p>—heaves Bruce over his shoulder as if Bruce is a sack of flour. </p>
<p>“Put me down. Now.”</p>
<p>“Put him down. <i>Now!</i>”</p>
<p>Jerome, unremarkably, doesn’t.</p>
<p>“You look ready to fall over just sitting on the steps, Brucie.” He says as he beings the slow trek up the stairs without seeming too effected by the additional weight of an <i>entire extra person</i>. “I’m not going to let you climb up by yourself so that you can fall and break your own neck. How am I supposed to fight you if you’re dead?”</p>
<p>Isn’t your ultimate goal to have me dead, anyway?</p>
<p>“I’m sure my ghost would come back to haunt you, if that makes you feel better.”</p>
<p>Jerome pauses for a moment between steps. From behind Jeremiah snarls, “Be careful! Don’t drop him!” Bruce lifts his eyes briefly and catches sight of Jeremiah’s shiny black shoes a few stairs below them, and he goes back to staring at the floor because he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know what Jeremiah’s face looks like right now.</p>
<p>“Y’know what, I don’t think it does. It’s much better to keep you alive and terrorize you.”</p>
<p>“You strapped a bomb around my neck,” Bruce feels the need to remind, just in case Jerome had forgotten that particular, <i>fairly recent</i> attempt on his life. </p>
<p>“And you think I wasn’t absolutely sure you would miraculously survive the experience along with my brother? Please, Bruce, I know you better than that.” Jerome starts to climb again.</p>
<p>“What was the point of it then?”</p>
<p>“Style. Flair. Panache.”</p>
<p>“Egoism,” Jeremiah cuts in loudly. “A constant need to be the center of attention.”</p>
<p>“As if you can talk, Jeremiah,” Jerome calls back, seeming unbothered. “We’re all fully aware of the things that you’ve done in order to be the center of attention.” They finally reach the top of the stairs, and Bruce is about to heave a sigh of relief at finally having his own feet on the ground again, but Jerome just keeps walking.</p>
<p>“I can make it to my bedroom on my own.”</p>
<p>“Not going to chance it.”</p>
<p>He sighs and accepts his face, too exhausted to fight. </p>
<p>“Don’t worry Bruce,” Jeremiah consoles him. “The next time you need to go anywhere <i>I’ll</i> carry you <i>far</i> more comfortably. You’ll be perfectly safe in my arms.”</p>
<p>Bruce rolls his eyes.</p>
<p>Then he’s settled into bed, and there are two mugs of tea being offered to him along with a pair of very weirdly expectant looks. He briefly contemplates taking neither, but that would be <i>rude</i> as well as <i>dangerous</i>, and he did actually ask for them to make him tea so it’s not like he can brush it off by saying he’s fine.</p>
<p>He grabs onto both mugs.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” he mutters under his breath, settling back against his pillows and taking a sip from each, because the last thing he needs right now is some kind of bloodbath happening in his bedroom because he chose one cup of tea over the other. The green is too sweet with way too much honey, and the black is too bitter from being over-steeped. They seem to balance each other out, at least, and he takes a few more sips and lets them mix in his mouth before swallowing. “It’s good,” he offers, wondering whether or not he’ll finally be left alone.</p>
<p>Of course he’s not. </p>
<p>x-x-x</p>
<p>Jerome isn’t <i>worried</i>, of course he’s not, even though Bruce looks like he’d get blown over by a stiff wind and then Jerome’s favourite volunteer would be gone forever and then who was he supposed to torment on a regular basis? Detective Gordon? Jimbo was fun to rile up but he wasn’t nearly as exciting or amusing as Bruce.</p>
<p>He needs to get better quickly, Jerome thinks frantically, so that Bruce can be strong enough to oppose me whenever I do something that makes him angry. </p>
<p>“You should sleep,” he starts without preamble as soon as Bruce finishes his two mugs of tea. Watching him drink the tea that Jerome had prepared for him had made Jerome feel weirdly fluttery. Maybe Bruce was contagious? Maybe Jerome was going to be down for the count for a whole week after this? Well. If he’s already infected then there’s clearly no point in leaving now in an attempt to save himself from sharing Bruce’s fate. He may as well stay. “Sleep helps.”</p>
<p>Bruce sighs. He seems to be doing that a lot. He sets the two empty mugs on his bedside table and says, “I know. I essentially slept for two days straight while I was in the hospital.”</p>
<p>Dead. Silence. Jerome is pretty sure he feels a sudden chill.</p>
<p>Hospital?</p>
<p>“<i>Hospital,</i>” Jeremiah screeches so that Jerome doesn’t have to. “You were so sick that you were hospitalized?!”</p>
<p>Jerome doesn’t really know what to do to help someone sick get better, and even if Bruce says he slept for two days he looks so tired, and Jerome feels weirdly like he needs some kind of reassurance that Bruce is at least a little bit okay even if he’s not entirely okay. </p>
<p>Jerome hastily slips off his gloves.</p>
<p>He presses one bare palm against Bruce’s forehead and one palm against his own.</p>
<p>Bruce stares at him with wide, surprised eyes. He’d honestly looked less shocked when Jerome cornered him in the office two years ago after he’d come back to life. Jerome kind of wishes he could enjoy seeing a look like this on Bruce’s face. He shuts his eyes and concentrates for a long moment before looking at Bruce again. </p>
<p>“… Either you’re warm or I’m just always a bit on the cold side because I used to be dead.”</p>
<p>“That’s not an accurate way to gauge if someone has a fever anyways,” Jeremiah says, sounding madder than a wet cat. From his peripherals Jerome can see him pulling off his own gloves. “But here, I’ve never been dead so I’m probably a better comparison.”</p>
<p>“There is literally a thermometer on my bedside table,” Bruce tells them. “I can see it from here.”</p>
<p>Jeremiah ignores him and smacks Jerome’s hand away before gently laying the back of his hand against Bruce’s forehead.</p>
<p>“You don’t feel warm,” Jeremiah murmurs. “Have you been taking medications for a fever?”</p>
<p>“Not since yesterday,” Bruce offers, though he sounds reluctant to part with such information. “Could you stop it, now?”</p>
<p>Jeremiah draws away, the look on his face is a strange match for the strangling maybe-concern-maybe-not-maybe-Jerome-doesn’t-actually-know-what-he’s-feeling that is laying heavily upon Jerome’s chest.</p>
<p>I’m definitely getting sick too, he thinks.</p>
<p>x-x-x</p>
<p>Jeremiah is on the verge of overwhelming distress. How could he have <i>not known</i> that Bruce had been in the hospital? How could he have failed so badly as a friend? He should have been sending flowers and get-well-soon cards and slipping into Bruce’s hospital room after visiting hours were over while he was sleeping to vigilantly sit at his bedside and make sure that he was still breathing.</p>
<p>I’ve got to make up for not realizing, he thinks frantically, so that Bruce knows he really is my best friend and I only have his best interests in mind.</p>
<p>He pulls his gloves back on, a strange, almost nervous feeling churning inside of him. Was Bruce still contagious? Was Jeremiah going to get sick, too? Well. If that was the case then he was already exposed, so he might as well stay to make sure Bruce got better faster.</p>
<p>“You should eat something,” he offers. He’s not entirely sure what to do to help a sick person get better, but food seems like a likely option. “You’ll get your strength back if you eat.”</p>
<p>Bruce looks at him. Looks at Jerome. His eyebrows pinch together as if he’s trying to figure something out. He looks pale and tired and Jeremiah wants to—wants to do <i>something</i> but he’s not entirely sure what.</p>
<p>“I know. I ate lunch a few hours before Alfred left, but…” Bruce looks between them again. “Thank you for your concern?”</p>
<p>A warm sensation blooms in Jeremiah’s chest.</p>
<p>I’m definitely getting sick too, he thinks.</p>
<p>“But you know, who can say for sure whether or not I’m contagious? Perhaps it would be better if you both left before I get you sick. Thank you again for the tea.”</p>
<p>“Leave?” Jeremiah couldn’t possibly <i>leave.</i> “Absolutely not. You’re stuck with me, my dear friend.”</p>
<p>“Stuck with <i>us</i>,” Jerome adds, glaring unsubtly in Jeremiah’s direction. “My favourite volunteer.”</p>
<p>Bruce looks between them both again. Then he shuts his eyes and lays back against his pillows.</p>
<p>“Fine. I don’t have the energy to kick you out anyway. Alfred will be back soon, though,” he reminds, eyes opening just a crack, as if he wants to see whether or not the mention of his butler is enough to make Jerome and Jeremiah run off. It is not. “So don’t get too comfortable.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>&lt;3<br/>Okay yeah the chapter count has been upped; I need a nice little book-end of a final chapter to tie these strings of mine together.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bruce is starting to entertain a theory. A very, very unlikely theory. Perhaps he was just reading the situation wrong. He wasn’t at his best right now, after all. His mind felt a bit fuzzy and every single interaction was throwing him for a loop, but…</p><p>But…</p><p>He watches from under his eyelashes as Jerome and Jeremiah bicker—in a way that seems less openly hostile than it had been when they’d first barged into his room over an hour ago, as if they were disagreeing more out of habit than anything else—about what was best for him snack on; saltine crackers or plain kettle chips.</p><p>Never mind. He’s too tired to follow his current train of thought regarding his suspicions about the motivating factors behind the brothers’ actions. He’ll leave it for when he’s actually feeling like a normal person again. </p><p>“The both of you are such—” <i>fucking unbelievable</i> “—dumbasses.”</p><p>The affronted look that they both send his way is totally worth saying it out loud. </p><p>Bruce feels a stab of something <i>almost fond</i> in his chest and he is determined to ignore it.</p><p>“I’m not hungry. I don’t need any medicine. You already gave me my tea and my cough-drops and fluffed my pillows and tucked me in.” Which had been the weirdest moment in Bruce’s life by far, and Bruce has experienced a lot of weird things during his eighteen years. “Alfred will be back soon. You realize that if he sees you leave he has Detective Gordon’s number on speed-dial? And he won’t hesitate to throw you to the ground and disarm you with his bare hands.”</p><p>“Fine,” Jerome says. “We’ll hide when he comes to check on you.”</p><p>Uh. No.</p><p>“And if he finds us,” Jeremiah adds excitedly, “then we’ll just have to throw him to the ground instead!”</p><p>“If you hurt Alfred I will never forgive either one of you and I will <i>ignore you both forever.</i>”</p><p>As far as threats go it seems pretty weak to Bruce, but the twins appear to take it more seriously than he thought they would; folding their arms and frowning like children being told that they couldn’t go out to play in the rain and wanting to silently protest while simultaneously accepting their fate.</p><p>In the back of his mind he can’t help but think this makes his suspicions just seem even more plausible. A question builds up in the back of his throat, much like his coughs, but he swallows it down.</p><p>Do you, by chance, <i>like me?</i></p><p>If he were wrong, well, he’s not in the mood to be laughed at. Especially not by them. </p><p>If he were right, well—</p><p>“Master Bruce,” a voice calls from just beyond the door and he jolts upright in the bed, heart in his throat at the accompanying knock. “I’ve got a visitor here for you; stumbled into them at the supermarket and they wanted to check in.”</p><p>Oh no. Oh no.</p><p>Bruce watches Jerome and Jeremiah fling themselves into his en-suite bathroom.</p><p>“Come in,” he croaks.</p><p>The door opens and there stands Alfred with Detective Gordon. </p><p>x-x-x</p><p>Bruce looks better than he had while he was in the hospital, but Jim still feels a pang of worry at seeing him so out of sorts. Alfred fusses over Bruce for a few minutes—making sure he’s comfortable and properly situated and asking pointedly how many times he’d gotten out of bed as he picks up two empty mugs from Bruce’s bedside table—and then he slips away with the promise of bringing up some chicken soup for dinner, and Jim slowly settles into a chair beside Bruce’s bed that Alfred had probably been occupying ever since Bruce came back from the hospital.</p><p>“You’re looking a little better,” he offers with a small smile which Bruce returns. “It’s nice to see you back home again.”</p><p>“It’s nice to be home again,” Bruce tells him. “It feels like things are finally going back to normal.” He pauses, lips pursing and eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly, likely remembering the irregularity of what constituted as ‘normal’ for him.</p><p>“Yeah.” Jim sighs and rubs a hand against the back of his neck. “Normal.”</p><p>Normal in Gotham was villains in bespoke suits and costumes wreaking havoc several times a week, sometimes even on the same day on opposite sides of the city. Sometimes while demanding the involvement of civilians—or rather, one civilian in particular—while spurning police involvement, as if they deserved a choice in the matter.</p><p>God, it’s been a long week, but at least so far today there’s been no sign of the rouges who’ve been the most active as of late. He won’t mention the current ‘quiet’ out loud, though, lest he somehow curse himself and end up getting called away to deal with one of their mad schemes when he only just arrived.</p><p>“Alfred says that you’ve been stressed about something lately,” Bruce says lightly, as if making a comment about the weather, but the look he shoots in Jim’s direction is intent in a way that Jim knows too well. If Jim doesn’t give Bruce answers, Bruce will find the answers on his own one way or another.</p><p>“I didn’t want to worry you since you’re recovering.” Jim tells him. “And. Well. You were in the hospital, Bruce, that’s not exactly the best time to be breaking any sort of bad news. I know that you don’t like being kept in the dark, though, so could you please promise me that you’re not going to run off when you should still be resting?”</p><p>“Of course, Detective Gordon. I know that I’m not invincible.” </p><p>Do you, Jim wonders, but he decides to give Bruce the benefit of the doubt. </p><p>“I think that both Jerome and Jeremiah Valeska are planning something that involves you.” </p><p>Bruce does not look surprised. Jim supposes that Jerome and Jeremiah have planned schemes involving Bruce in some way, shape, or form enough times by now that the entire experience essentially boils down to: same shit, different day.</p><p>“I had to put an end to their usual brands of chaos several days ago and both of them seemed angry that you weren’t getting yourself involved.” As if it were <i>Bruce’s</i> responsibility to try and put a stop to them. Honestly, the nerve. The <i>audacity.</i>  </p><p>A micro-expression filters across Bruce’s face, but it disappears too quickly for Jim to try and read it. </p><p>“It would be for the best if you continue to stay away from them if at all possible even after you’ve fully recovered, although I realize that they do have a tendency to target you specifically.” What had Bruce ever done to deserve this level of malicious attention? “Still, the next time someone demands your presence the police will handle it without letting you put yourself in danger. Maybe, if you ignore them for long enough, they’ll get bored and move on to terrorize someone else.” Which, well. Jim would really like Jerome and Jeremiah to not be free to target anyone, but Bruce needed a break.</p><p>“If I ignore them for long enough,” Bruce murmurs, expression unreadable. “Well, I suppose it’s worth a shot.”</p><p>x-x-x </p><p>“What are they talking about?”</p><p>“Shh! Keep your goddamn voice down Jeremiah, do you <i>want</i> Jimbo to come storming in here?”</p><p>“Obviously not, Jerome, but if you would move away from the door I could listen myself.”</p><p>“If you <i>stopped fucking talking</i> I could listen, too. Zip it.”</p><p>“Fine. I will stop talking. Starting now.”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>Silence.</p><p>“<i>He just told Bruce to ignore us!</i>”</p><p>“<i>What?!</i>”</p><p>x-x-x</p><p>Bruce speaks with Jim for over half an hour before the Detective starts making his goodbyes. He’s only just left when Alfred comes up with the promised chicken soup, and he sits in the chair beside Bruce’s bed as they eat together.</p><p>“Perhaps, if you’re feeling up for it, tomorrow morning we could change the current routine from having breakfast in bed to something a little more like your usual.”</p><p>“I’d like that very much, Alfred.” Even if he went straight back to bed after, it would be nice to eat on an actual chair with an actual table in front of him again. “I’m sure I’ve had enough breakfasts in bed to last me the entire year.”</p><p>“Duly noted,” Alfred says, a small amount of humor in his tone. Bruce decides to take it as a good sign. Tomorrow he could eat meals in the kitchen again. Maybe the next day he’d only have to have one nap during the day to keep up his recovery. Maybe the day after that he could catch up on the news and see what had been happening in his city for the week and a half that he’d been out of commission. </p><p>A week and a half. He never wants to get sick <i>again.</i> The sun isn’t even starting to set yet and he feels about ready to go down for the count, although in his defense he has dealt with a lot more today than he thought he was going to have to. </p><p>Jerome and Jeremiah have been hidden away in his en-suite for almost two hours. Bruce wonders if it’s possible for men as mad as them to go stir-crazy. He supposes he should be thankful that they didn’t get sick of it after five minutes and decide to come out guns blazing.  </p><p>He has a sudden, terrible thought that maybe the reason why they’ve been so quiet is because they’ve actually <i>killed each other.</i></p><p>“I think I’m going to go to sleep early tonight, Alfred.”</p><p>“An excellent plan, Master Bruce.” Alfred stands up from the chair, beginning to deposit the bowls and cutlery onto the tray he’d brought them up on. “You’re finally starting to get come colour back. I think today has been a good day for you.”</p><p>Has it, Bruce thinks.</p><p>Well, maybe, if one decided to ignore the fact that Jerome and Jeremiah were actually criminals who’d broken into his house because they’d thought he was ignoring them on purpose and instead thought of them as concerned acquaintances who’d dropped by to make sure that he was okay. </p><p>“Have a good rest, Master B.”</p><p>“Thank you Alfred,” Bruce says. “Goodnight.”</p><p>He starts slipping out of bed as Alfred heads to the door, and when he is finally alone again he lightly knocks on the door of his en-suite.</p><p>“The both of you had better be alive in there,” he says to the wood. “Get out, I have to brush my teeth.”</p><p>The door swings open. They’re both standing in the doorframe, staring at him, but by now Bruce has gotten used to it so he’s mostly unbothered. Is it strange that he’s actually relieved to see them alive and unharmed? Perhaps. But, again, that is something to be puzzled over in a few days when he’s back to his usual self again. </p><p>“You’re not <i>actually</i> going to ignore us on purpose, are you?” Jerome looks nonchalant and unaffected, but his fists are clenched at his sides. Jeremiah, meanwhile, looks like he’s either preparing to throw himself to the floor in a tantrum or fling himself at Bruce in a bid for attention. </p><p>“After I know what you do when I ignore you by accident?” He can’t even imagine the lengths they’d go to if he ignored them for even longer while actively trying to foil the plans of Gotham’s many other criminals. “Only if you make me really mad,” he threatens loftily as he shoulders past them.</p><p>Huh.</p><p>That.</p><p>Seemed to imply that Bruce had a particular amount of <i>power</i> in this strange dynamic that he had somehow entered. </p><p>He closes the door behind him and turns towards the mirror—</p><p>—he stops and stares.</p><p>They’d obviously gotten bored in here, because they must have emptied every tube of toothpaste that he has in order to scrawl over the entirety of his mirror. They each seem to have taken one half, two vertical lines side by side acting as a border. </p><p>Jeremiah’s side of the mirror has scribbled math equations that Bruce can remember watching him work on, back when he’d still thought that Jeremiah was his friend; things he’s fairly certain he actually commented on, too, which Jeremiah had apparently never forgotten about. There is also a half-remembered image that Jim had once shown Bruce—the layout for Jeremiah’s maze, the location of each bomb marked off with a cheeky little x—as well as a pair of figures standing beside it. <i>J &amp; B</i>, the letters above their heads identify them, underneath their feet are the letters <i>BFF</i>. They’re holding hands and smiling. </p><p>Jerome’s side is half slapdash text, a disorderly stream of consciousness about destined nemeses and dazzling villains needing dramatic heroes, and half messy drawings—chainsaws and knives and lit dynamite. There are two figures on his side, too, though instead of holding hands they appear to be fighting. <i>J &amp; B. Worst Enemies Forever</i>, says the text above it. Underneath their feet is a smudge—as if he’d drawn something but he or Jeremiah had wiped it away—but above the smudge something new had been added, whether a redrawing of what had once been there or something added specifically to piss Jeremiah off, Bruce can’t be sure.</p><p>A little heart. </p><p>Bruce stares at his reflection through the streaks of dried toothpaste. </p><p>
  <i>Do they, by chance, like me?</i>
</p><p>“I hope you realize that you’re going to be the ones cleaning this up,” he yells through the door, face feeling hotter than it has for a few days, as he fumbles around for a tube of toothpaste that has even one dollop left inside of it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>💕</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I can’t believe that Bruce is making us wash this off,” Jerome grumbles halfheartedly as he lifts himself up onto the countertop so that he can reach the top of the thoroughly defaced mirror. “I don’t think he even took a picture of it first.”</p><p>“It <em>did</em> take him two minutes to tell us that we had to wash it, though, so at least he took a good look at it.” Jeremiah sniffs primly as he rolls up his sleeves. “In any case, I got a photo of my side, so I’ll just text the image to him every morning as a reminder that we are meant to be best friends forever.”</p><p>“Oh yeah? Well, I’m going to slip handwritten notes into his mailbox as a reminder that we are meant to be worst enemies forever.”</p><p>“I can hear you, you know,” Bruce calls from outside. “No one is texting me photos or sending me letters. I will have my cell number changed, and I’m not going to open any mail sent from an address I don’t know. The absolute last thing I need in my life is to think I’ve got a possibly harmless letter from one of you and it turns out to be a letter-bomb or something equally nefarious from someone else.”</p><p>The wet cloth that Jerome is using to dampen the dried toothpaste before tackling it with something stronger squeaks harshly against the glass.</p><p>Their heads both swivel to see Bruce lingering in the doorway, arms crossed.</p><p>“Is that something that’s happened to you before,” Jerome asks with an edge to his tone.</p><p>“I could blow them off of the face of the earth for you,” Jeremiah offers through gritted teeth.</p><p>“It hasn’t happened,” Bruce says, but all three of them can sense an unsaid ‘yet’. “But one must always be prepared for the possibility. No texts. No letters.”</p><p>No fun, he may as well say, and Jerome and Jeremiah both purse their lips in a pout.</p><p>And then Bruce’s serious expression shifts and—</p><p>—his lips quirk upwards in a soft, charming little smile. He looks, maybe not entirely different, but nice, when he smiles. He wears happiness well, though you’d never know it considering how well he wore his broody, serious looks; as if those were the only expressions worth having. Seeing him smile at them produces a feeling akin to whiplash before it produces something tremoring and warm, twice as strong as it had been when they’d wondered over the possibility that they themselves were becoming sick.</p><p>But they don’t really <em>feel sick</em>, even if the sensations are stronger, now.</p><p>Huh, Jerome thinks, heart racing.</p><p>Huh, Jeremiah thinks, pulse fluttering.</p><p>And, as they are on the verge of finally figuring it all out, Bruce says:</p><p>“You know, you two are a lot more alike than I thought you were.”</p><p>Bewilderment and outrage flood through them, abruptly drowning their first chance at true self-awareness.</p><p>“We are not!”</p><p>“Take it back!”</p><p>Bruce chortles under his breath and turns away without another word, closing the bathroom door.</p><p>Rude, Jerome thinks, but I’ll forgive you because you’re my worst enemy.</p><p>Rude, Jeremiah thinks, but I’ll forgive you because you’re my best friend.</p><p>They get back to work. Cleaning is an arduous process and neither one of them are especially fond of seeing their special little notes smudge and fade and disappear. By the time the mirror is clean again it seems <em>too clean</em>, with no evidence that Jerome and Jeremiah had been here at all. It makes something a lot like unhappiness curl inside of them, even though it would have had to be washed sooner or later—and by Bruce, too, to make sure that Alfred didn’t see it and figure out just what had been going on. Still, looking at the clean glass makes them feel morose.</p><p>“Do you think he would have made us wash it off if we hadn’t taken up the entire mirror,” Jeremiah asks.</p><p>“I’d say we could try again to know for sure, but we used up all the toothpaste already,” Jerome answers.</p><p>“We can leave notes in things <em>other</em> than toothpaste, Jerome.” Jeremiah’s hand slips into one of his pockets to pull out a tube of red lipstick. “Honestly. Have you never heard of a backup plan?”</p><p>“If you had that the entire time then why did we even bother splitting the toothpaste?”</p><p>“Because this colour is a limited edition and it looks wonderful on me,” Jeremiah says, entirely reasonable. “And I would have run out, and then you would have had more on the mirror than me. This will suffice for a little note, though.”</p><p>He lightly presses the lipstick to the bottom corner of the mirror and starts writing. Jerome watches, silent for all of ten seconds, before he figures out what Jeremiah is doing.</p><p>“Stop, give me that.” Jerome elbows him roughly and grabs the lipstick from his hand, crossing a line through one word and messily adding onto Jeremiah’s work. “I’m not letting you just pretend that I wasn’t here, too.”</p><p>“To forget about being stuck in here with you for two hours would be a blessing,” Jeremiah mutters, watching Jerome’s handiwork. “What are you even—no!” Jerome grabs the lipstick back and furiously drags a strike though the last bit that Jerome had written. “No. No.”</p><p>“If all three of us can’t be one, and all three of us can’t be the other, then what are all three of us supposed to be?”</p><p>Jeremiah thinks for a long moment before adding one more neatly written word. “There. That’s what we all are, collectively.”</p><p>“I mean, I’m not disagreeing with you,” Jerome says, though he sounds as if admitting it pains him. “So I guess it’ll do.”</p><p>“Good. Now let’s leave it at that, if we add more Bruce might make us wash it off again.”</p><p>“Fine. I can’t believe you’re still so annoying after fifteen fucking years,” Jerome says with a roll of his eyes.</p><p>“As if you can talk,” Jeremiah says, hands planted on his hips.</p><p>They both sound somewhat cheery. They both decide to ignore that as they finally step back out of the bathroom.</p><p>Bruce is laid out in his bed, sound asleep, the dim light of sunset painting gentle highlights and shadows over his face. He looks peaceful, which neither of them are used to, and calm, which is good, obviously, because he needs to get better for whatever reasons he needs to get better which they can’t quite remember at the moment because the room is quiet and the sun is setting and Bruce looks like he’s deep asleep and <em>defenseless</em>.</p><p>“I missed him,” Jeremiah admits softly.</p><p>“I did, too.”</p><p>Schemes just weren’t the same without Bruce around to grudgingly impress and fight and try to overcome or sway. Getting a reaction out of someone so unflappable was how they <em>knew</em> they were doing a good—bad?—job.</p><p>They’re silent for a few moments. How could Bruce simply fall asleep when notorious criminals such as Jerome and Jeremiah Valeska were washing up toothpaste in his bathroom? How much longer did he need to fully recover? How many other criminals <em>might try to break into his house</em> while he was sick? It hadn’t been particularly difficult, and there were so many places to hide, and with only one other person in the entirety of the sprawling manor it wasn’t inconceivable to imagine that a call for help might not be heard or an empty bed might not be discovered until morning. What if someone broke in during the middle of the night after Jerome and Jeremiah had gone and <em>did something to Bruce?</em></p><p>“I don’t want to go yet,” Jerome confesses.</p><p>“Me either.”</p><p>They share a look. They turn back to Bruce. Their hearts twinge strangely. They don’t want to leave, and why should they leave? Not only did they have very rational concerns regarding the glaring security flaws of Wayne Manor and the subsequent safety of the person housed inside of it, but also; what was point of breaking and entering if you didn’t get something out of it, too? Not that plying Bruce with attention hadn’t felt like getting something out of it, as he was the greatest best friend/worst enemy that anyone could ask for and it was very important that he recover, but still… Why break the law at all if you weren’t going to have fun with it?</p><p>They strip off their waistcoats and undo the first few buttons of their dress shirts. They sit down on either side of the bed to take off their shoes. They get comfortable on their backs on top of the sheets, bracketing Bruce like a pair of sinister, incredibly deadly guard dogs. They realize, quite unexpectedly, that they’ve broken out into a sweat and that their hearts are pounding.</p><p>Bruce stirs between them. Settles. Goes suspiciously still. Sleepily mumbles:</p><p>“You had better not be doing what I think you’re doing.”</p><p>
  <em>What do you think we’re doing?</em>
</p><p>Bruce goes back to sleep.</p><p>The twins lay awake until it is dark.</p><p>
  <em>What are we doing?</em>
</p><p>x-x-x</p><p>Bruce wakes up in the middle of the night, and he’s—</p><p>Absolutely not alone, and he absolutely cannot ignore that he’s not alone.</p><p>Someone—Jerome—is stretched out right up against his back, one leg hooked over Bruce’s and lightly snoring against his neck. Someone—Jeremiah—has tucked themselves under Bruce’s chin and into his arms in order to snuggle right up against his chest. Bruce has, without becoming aware of it until now, become both the big and the little spoon.</p><p>Huh, he thinks hazily, mind clouded with a mostly-forgotten dream, this is kind of nice.</p><p>He falls back asleep.</p><p>He wakes up again with a start a few hours later.</p><p>He’s alone, but even more important than that is that he feels <em>great</em>. He doesn’t think he’s slept so well in literal years. He almost feels like himself again. There’s no sign that Jerome or Jeremiah had been here, and frankly their entire time here—from the second that they’d burst through Bruce’s bedroom door—seems like an amalgamation between a slapstick comedy and a fever dream.</p><p>Ridiculous, he thinks, feeling that little stab of something like fondness again. I wonder if they left their fingerprints smeared all over my bathroom mirror.</p><p>But when he goes to check the mirror is clean, except for some translucent red text—lipstick, he notes in the back of his mind—in the bottom corner.</p><p><em>J &amp; B</em> <strong>&amp; J</strong></p><p><em>Best </em><strike><em>Friends</em> </strike><br/>
                <strong> <strike> Enemies </strike> </strong><em>Dressed</em></p><p>Best dressed, he echoes incredulously, trying to smother a smile. There’s a strange little pang in his chest, and even if Bruce wants to put everything on hold until he’s completely better it’s all very difficult to ignore, especially when he remembers the tranquil feeling that had washed over him when he’d woken up in the middle of the night to find himself both holding and being held.</p><p>Do I, by chance, <em>like them?</em></p><p>He looks at the note again. He stops trying to bite back his smile.</p><p>He doesn’t wash it off.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay this may be wrapped up but let's face it guys; you know me well enough by now to know that when my ideas start snowballing I just sort of roll with it until the avalanche is over. Plus my friend and I have already talked about stuff that happens in the aftermath of this and I have to <i>at least</i> write a kiss (or, rather, two kisses minimum) or else I will drive myself crazy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bruce spends one more day taking it easy, and the following day he finally starts catching up on what he’s been missing out on. News stations don’t have quite all the answers that he’s looking for but Detective Gordon, probably wanting Bruce to be more prepared should a certain set of twins be scheming plans specifically meant to target him, promises to drop by after his shift to fill in the gaps. </p>
<p>He receives a photocopy of a letter addressed to Detective Gordon but obviously meant for himself, he watches a recording of Jerome’s broadcast where the intended audience is rather unsubtly meant to be him, he is urged by Detective Gordon to check his voicemail and listens to a message left by an unknown number that makes him feel like rolling his eyes and smiling at the same time, he sees footage from Jim’s dashcam of Jerome throwing a fit when Jim tells him that Bruce isn’t coming.  </p>
<p>Now that he knows what to look for it all seems so obvious. </p>
<p>“Have they been up to anything over the past few days?”</p>
<p>Other than breaking and entering into his house, which was a secret that Bruce did not plan on sharing with anyone any time soon. </p>
<p>“Yes and no. Nothing major has happened, considering who it is we’re talking about, but I heard about something yesterday that worries me. Makes me wonder if we’ve got to hunker down for an oncoming storm.”</p>
<p>Bruce leans forward in his seat, hands folding together and looking at the Detective expectantly.</p>
<p>“What is it that’s worrying you?” Yesterday; the day that Bruce had woken up alone hours after waking up decidedly not alone. There’s a pang in his chest and a strange fondness in his heart but he’ll try to snuff it out if he has to. He probably should have tried to smother it the moment he began to recognize the sentiments, sick or not. </p>
<p>“Before they either mostly ignored each other or were actively trying to one-up each other when they had space between them, and then whenever they got within fifteen feet of each other people would get themselves ready for some kind of bloodbath. But yesterday they happened to cross paths during what seemed to be a petty theft, though I’m sure there’s something more to it because the workers couldn’t even say for certain what they stole. No one was killed or wounded,” Jim says before Bruce can ask. “Just. The place they hit up seems way too out of character for it to have been an actual plan and not just something to send the police on a wild goose chase. And while they were getting away they seemed… Less likely to try and shoot each other than usual? According to eye witnesses there was banter. They didn’t banter before. If there’s one thing this city doesn’t need it’s Jerome and Jeremiah starting to get along enough that they’ll team up.”</p>
<p>That <i>was</i> a terrifying thought.</p>
<p>“They’ve been keeping you hard at work, Detective Gordon,” Bruce tells him, because it’s more polite than saying ‘you look tired’.</p>
<p>“I just keep trying to figure out what I’m missing before all of the information is haughtily thrown in my face,” he murmurs. “And if things could quiet down for one night I certainly wouldn’t mind. A few boring days would really make up for the crazy stretch that we’ve recently been having.”</p>
<p>Hmm, Bruce purses his lips and thinks—</p>
<p>—about the certain amount of power that he had in their unexpected dynamic. </p>
<p>“Perhaps they’ll focus on something other than causing chaos and destruction, for a short period of time,” he says lightly. “Stranger things have happened.”</p>
<p>“The idea that a peaceful day is stranger than a day full of pandemonium is… Well, true, but…” Jim trails off, probably not wanting to say anything <i>too</i> depressing right in front of Bruce. </p>
<p>Normal in Gotham wasn’t normal anywhere else, that was for certain. </p>
<p>“Where were they seen together, that it seems so out of character to you?”</p>
<p>“Pharmacy. None of the meds in the back were touched, not that that’s anything near their usual shtick, and there were only security cameras back there and at the front door. Based on the timing of when they entered the store and left they might have combed through nearly every aisle before leaving. Makeup, hair dye, first aid supplies, cards—”</p>
<p>Cards?</p>
<p>“—all those last-minute items people forget about needing until they see them on sale. Drug store makeup is not Jeremiah Valeska’s style,” Jim says, and he sounds absolutely weary with the fact that he can state it with certainty. “And I can’t understand why Jerome would go out himself and risk getting caught rather than send one of his cult fanatics if he needed something so badly.”</p>
<p>Cards.</p>
<p>“I hope you figure it out soon, Detective Gordon.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Bruce.”</p>
<p>As soon as the Detective is gone Bruce rushes to the kitchen where Alfred sets the mail until he has time to sort through it. He’s been busy lately, so newspapers and coupon booklets and junk mail are stacked together, but the earliest ones are on top. </p>
<p>Bruce, on instinct, begins to sift through the pile and eventually he feels something lightly textured, mostly hidden underneath one of Alfred’s cooking magazines. He pulls it out.</p>
<p><i>To: Bruce</i>, says the envelope, <i>From: Best Dressed</i></p>
<p>He had said no letters, but he could make an exception—just this once—considering that there was literally no one else who would refer to themselves as such and expect Bruce to recognize them. </p>
<p>He hastily takes it up to his bedroom, holding it to his chest as if Alfred would demand to know who was sending Bruce letters in the mail. As soon as the door is closed he drags his finger under the seal of the envelope. </p>
<p>He wonders how many cards they looked at before eventually deciding on this.</p>
<p>‘So, I heard you were in the hospital…’</p>
<p>He snorts and flips it open.</p>
<p>‘Glad you’re back out again!’ exclaims the card’s printed font.</p>
<p>Get well soon, urges Jeremiah’s neat cursive.</p>
<p>Or else, the threat of Jerome’s rougher print is dampened by the smiley face drawn alongside it.</p>
<p>Bruce actually feels kind of touched.</p>
<p>He closes the card and sets it on his bedside table, mind buzzing with plans of his own.</p>
<p>It was time to pay some attention to the best dressed criminals in Gotham.</p>
<p>
  <b>No Sign of Bruce Wayne: Day Zero</b>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>bts</p>
<p>Alfred stares at the red text on the mirror, and it takes him approximately half a second to figure out who J and J could possibly be.</p>
<p>“Oh, bloody hell.”</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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